


The Flight Leaving Earth At Seventeen Hundred...

by Manna



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:05:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manna/pseuds/Manna





	The Flight Leaving Earth At Seventeen Hundred...

Avon handed over the spoon—his companion already had possession of the waxed paper tub—and turned his attention back to the newscast.

On the screen facing their sofa, the replay of the trial had reached its climax. The picture split—the left half showed Blake in the courtroom, the right half displayed a wide shot of the packed observation room where relatives, reporters and assorted others watched the solemn proceedings. Cheers and whistles rose as the Arbiter announced the sentence. Troopers restored order, clearly mindful that they were on camera.

Buggering little boys _and_ getting caught at it, Avon thought. Hardly the qualities one looked for in a hero of the people. No more than he'd expect from ideologically inclined rebels, though. He'd take honest, old-fashioned cupidity and career ambition any day.

Turning his head slightly, he eyed the man seated beside him, keeping the scrutiny subtle. Not a muscle moved in Travis's face, but his gaze was fixed on the screen. A blob of ice cream dripped from the spoon and onto black leather. Avon reached over, scooped it up, and licked his finger clean.

'Never let sticky substances soak into leather', that was one motto Avon lived by.

"Everything all right?" Avon enquired.

"Yes."

The situation called for a little more precision. "What I mean is—you are over that, aren't you?"

"Over it?" Travis looked round slowly. "_Over_ it? The fucker shot me in the _head_ and you want to know if I'm _over it_?"

"That," Avon said calmly, "is what I want to know, yes."

Travis's eyes flashed angrily, their dark intensity emphasised by the fetching scowl, before he turned back to the screen. Nice reconstruction job, Avon thought absently—really, the only way to detect the scarring was to lick the skin around the left socket, which wasn't a problem in common social situations.

Travis ate another spoonful of raspberry ripple, sucking it slowly off the spoon before tonguing the bowl clean. Avon watched the procedure with deep appreciation.

When he'd finished, Travis said, "Yes, I think I am. Over it. Not that I don't still enjoy seeing the bent bastard finally get what's coming to him."

Avon smiled. One of Travis's more endearing idiosyncrasies was the way that he could use the word 'bent' as an insult and put such feeling into it. Occasionally even while being fucked.

On the screen, the picture switched to the live feed. The line of prisoners walked to the ship, between barriers holding back a noisy crowd. Rules of good vidcasting decreed that Blake would be at the rear, but as the camera panned slowly along the line, Avon easily picked out a figure at the front of the procession, walking beside a rather attractive blonde. The camera didn't linger on him—just another white-collar criminal nobody.

Tynus was gazing round, wide-eyed, looking lost and more than a little scared—perhaps searching the crowd for someone who should have come to say goodbye, but hadn't?

Avon ruthlessly suppressed a twinge of guilt. It was the man's own fault that things had come to this—Tynus had been a fool not to listen to his advice.

Still, Tynus had also been...well, their relationship had been something more than physical, once upon a time. However, another of Avon's mottos was 'my skin always comes first'. Reporting his former lover had been the only way for Avon to keep that delicate hide in one piece. Tynus's plan to defraud the Federation Banking System had been ridiculous from the first—he might as well have put up a sign declaiming 'political criminals at work'. And that Grant woman had had Central Security stamped all over her.

That said, Avon could forgive Tynus for falling for Anna. She certainly knew how to turn on the charm. She might even have weakened Avon's resolve to steer clear of the impending disaster, if he hadn't already been being fucked six ways from Sunday by the man currently refusing to share a tub of very expensive ice cream. Avon took hold of the spoon and tugged firmly, until Travis surrendered it.

The star of the show had arrived. The well-rehearsed mob jeered, spat, and hurled rotten vegetables at Blake, who ignored the abuse with noble fortitude.

Avon shook his head. Sometimes he despaired of the Federation. "Dear God, whatever next? Stocks? Cackling crones? Costumed village idiots?"

"Got those already." Travis pointed to an ill-assorted pair a few prisoners ahead of Blake.

They did indeed have the look of a circus giant and his trickster side-kick. No doubt both the kind of criminal wastrels that the Federation was better off without.

"I bet no one in that Delta-spawned crowd has even seen a real live vegetable before today." Avon jabbed the spoon towards the screen for emphasis. "Those are my tax credits being smeared across the hanger floor." Or would be if he actually paid any tax. "Who's in charge of staging these things, do you know? Whoever it is, _he_ ought to be exiled."

A particularly overripe tomato splatted in Blake's hair, and Travis snickered.

"Of course, I daresay the spectacle amuses the oafish masses."

"Fuck you," Travis said amiably.

He'd damn well _better_ be over it, Avon thought as he dug into the tub again, searching futilely for raspberry syrup. The Space Command's health plan wasn't generous, and the private psychotherapy hadn't been cheap. At least Travis had finally agreed to have the physical reminders of his contretemps with Blake repaired. After rebuilding his eye, another set of expensive medics had replaced the artificial hand with something more organic and less destructive, much to Avon's relief. Being finger-fucked by someone who could inadvertently vaporise one's spine by bending his thumb the wrong way was an unnerving experience.

Not entirely unexciting, though.

The 'London' lifted off the launch pad, swirling clouds of sparks and exhaust fumes over the watching crowd. The cat-calls changed abruptly to violent coughs and screams, and the camera cut away to a long shot. An ugly little civilian freighter taking off—a rather pedestrian sight. Who would guess that its departure removed nagging problems from both their lives?

Avon stuck the spoon into the remains of the ice cream. Then, reaching over Travis, he retrieved the remote and switched off the screen.

"I was watching that!"

"It's over." Avon threw the remote across the room, where it hit the wall and fell down out of sight behind the drinks cabinet. "Over and done with. Finis. The End."

Travis glared for a moment, then shrugged, creaking slightly. "Just as you say."

Avon caught Travis's hand as he reached to pick up the spoon. "Before you finish _all_ of that, I have one or two ideas for what we might do with the leftovers..."


End file.
